


And I Must Swim or Drown

by Meridians_of_Madness



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Abandonment, Angst, Caning, Choking, Consent Issues, Dark, Genderfluid Character, Genital formation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kissing, M/M, Multi, Punching, Roleplay, Sadist!Aziraphale, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Fingering, gratuitous use of early modern English, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:22:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22416949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meridians_of_Madness/pseuds/Meridians_of_Madness
Summary: Aziraphale's a monster, Crowley loves him, and Medoc..._Aziraphale has cravings Crowley can't satiate, so Crowley brings up a literal whipping boy from Hell. Dark AU of Vitreous_Humor's"Sorrows and Sighs and Mickle Care".
Relationships: Aziraphale (Good Omens)/Original Male Character(s), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 71
Collections: IK Shenanigans, The Medoc Files





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boughofawillowtree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boughofawillowtree/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Sorrow and Sighs and Mickle Care](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21668989) by [Vitreous_Humor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vitreous_Humor/pseuds/Vitreous_Humor). 



He was actually sleeping when the call came, curled up in a pile of warm bodies. There was a surprising amount of cuddling in Hell, and when Medoc sat up bolt upright, an iron hook through his heart and his own name, the real one, echoing through his head, he felt a sleepy hand squeeze his and someone else utter a soft sound of protest just before he was wrenched away.

_Fuckfuckfuckfuck_...

The distance between Hell and Earth was enormous, a space posited by philosophers to stretch across thousands of years of travel at speeds that light could only dream of.

For Medoc, it was about ten minutes from Hell to a fashionable flat in Mayfair, ten minutes where he took long gasping breaths to try to calm himself, told himself that he wasn't going to burst into tears immediately, that it wasn't going to be what he knew it was.

Then he landed, the impact sending him to his knees in the center of a summoning circle. He put down one hand to steady himself, catching his breath and coming to terms with the reality of _yes, again._

There was a scraping sound as Crowley rubbed out some of the lines of the summoning circle with his foot and crossed to where Medoc crouched on the ground. Medoc flinched when Crowley put out his hand, and he was only more furious with himself when he realized Crowley was only offering to help him up. He batted Crowley away and stood on his own, glaring.

“You cannot keep doing this to me,” he snarled, and Crowley only gave him an opaque look.

“Door's right there,” he said. “Circle's broken, nothing's stopping you from heading home right now, bunny.”

“Don't call me that,” Medoc said, obscurely grateful that Crowley was giving him the opportunity to be angry right now, to wear himself out a little after the summoning. If he was angry at Crowley, he wouldn't be angry at-

Crowley nodded towards the bedroom, but as Medoc stumbled towards it, he stopped him with a hand hooked around his arm.

“ _What?”_ Medoc demanded, only to find himself pulled up against Crowley's body, Crowley's fingers ruffling the hair at the back of his head, Crowley's soft voice murmuring something almost too low to catch next to his ear. It took him a moment to realize that Crowley was speaking to him in Infernus, a language completely unintelligible to humans or angels.

“ _Be thou safe and return to me.”_

It was impossible to lie to another demon in Infernus, and that meant the longing and the sorrow in Crowley's voice was real. Medoc didn't know what to do with that. He never had.

He hesitated, nodded, and then Crowley let him walk through the door towards the bedroom. Despite himself, Medoc's step quickened as he walked down the hall. He could tell himself all he liked that he hated this, that he was afraid and furious, but that was always the problem. He never hated it _enough._

The angel sat by the cold hearth with a book in his lap, a pair of reading glasses he very clearly did not need perched on his nose. Medoc watched him pretending to read for a moment, hungry despite everything for the angel's pale hair, for the soft lines in his face and the way his thick fingers turned the fragile pages of his books with a care and gentleness that made Medoc's heart beat faster.

_Touch me like that,_ he thought recklessly. _Be that careful with_ me...

Aziraphale closed his book and and rose to set it carefully on the mantel, his glasses following before he turned to Medoc.

“Come here,” he said softly, and his heart thumping fast, Medoc did as he was told.

Medoc, like Crowley, was a little taller than the angel, though Aziraphale was stockier by far than either of them. Medoc generally liked how narrow he was, but next to the angel, it made him feel almost dizzyingly insubstantial, like at any moment he might simply shred to pieces under the angel's careless touch.

He could already feel it, the swirls of something like a riptide drawing him towards Aziraphale. Crowley had told him over and over again that it wasn't love, not that, but Medoc still didn't believe him. Refused to, when it took him over like this, when it made him want to drop to his knees. Nothing else had felt like this since Heaven, and when he pointed that out, Crowley had fallen silent, unable to argue.

He took a deep shuddering breath as Aziraphale reached a hand up to lightly stroke his cheek.

“I want you to keep breathing tonight,” he said softly. “All right?”

Medoc nodded, unwilling to trust his voice, and then he sucked in his breath as Aziraphale's hand closed tightly around the front of his throat. The grasp was sudden and sure, bruising his windpipe and cutting off his air with a sudden and brutal intensity. Medoc couldn't stop himself from clawing at Aziraphale's forearm, a panicked gurgle escaping before it was cut off too.

As suddenly as he had taken Medoc by the throat, Aziraphale let him go, and Medoc wavered on his feet, blinking the dark spots out of his vision.

“Well, you should try, anyway,” said Aziraphale, pleased. :”Lie on the bed, on your back.”

He was aware of the angel's eyes on him as he clambered into the bed, still clothed, still shod. Black was practically dress code for demons, but the tight jeans he had started to wear, the jackets, the strange tasseled scarf around his neck, he wondered if they caught Aziraphale's eye, if they made the angel look upon him more favorably. If he noticed at all.

Medoc couldn't help letting his eyes drift closed as he sprawled on his back on the soft mattress. They didn't have anything this nice in Hell.

The bed dipped as Aziraphale knelt on it next to him, and he opened his eyes to find the angel regarding him, unsmiling, eyes nearly black in the dim room.

“Hi,” he said, sounding unbearably young and shy in his own ears.

“Hello,” Aziraphale said, and Medoc wondered if there was some warmth in it.

Aziraphale came to straddle his chest, but when Medoc slid his hands up Aziraphale's clothed thighs, the angel shook his head.

“You know better,” he said admonishing. “Hands to yourself.”

Medoc let his hands fall to the bed, and then Aziraphale's hands were locked around his throat, closing tight on either side, not letting up until stars burst in his vision and his head swam. Aziraphale let him go long enough to gasp for breath, and then his hands were back, cutting off Medoc's air with calm and brutal efficiency.

_Keep breathing,_ Aziraphale had said, and Medoc was _trying_. The power to banish the need to breathe was right at his fingertips, and he curled his hands into fists to prevent himself from reaching for it. The angel had said to keep breathing, and every time the hands around his throat loosened, he gasped for breath as if it might have killed him.

It only occurred to him three or four repetitions in that Aziraphale might not mind that, that it was only a corporation after all, and he started to thrash in earnest. The hands on his throat suddenly felt heavier, and it seemed to take longer and longer for Aziraphale to let him breathe.

His vision was going entirely black for several moments, and his head ached, his heart raced, and all he could do was try to breathe without actually succeeding.

When Aziraphale finally let him go, his entire body felt as if it it had been peeled, a layer of skin pulled back to reveal something filthy and cowering underneath.

Medoc might have cringed back from shame, but Aziraphale seemed to like what he saw, sitting back on his heels and watching Medoc's pained, relieved gasps with interest.

Aziraphale slid down his body to straddle his thighs, and to his surprise, the angel unbuttoned Medoc's shirt, brushing the ridiculous silver scarf aside to do so. He hadn't done this before, always made Medoc do it himself, and Medoc's breath stuttered before he remembered himself.

Breathe.

Medoc was just calming down when Aziraphale smiled, and one hard fist came down on the flat of Medoc's chest, right above his left nipple. The impact was stunning, and then a second blow came right on top of the first one.

It wasn't hard enough to knock the breath out of him, but it was just too hard. It was the way the flat of Aziraphale's knuckles struck his skin, the force of the angel's weight behind it. Of course he had been struck before, in the face, in the ribs, on his back, and these blows called those up again, the helplessness and the fear and the pain.

Medoc endured it for as long as he could, but finally he couldn't keep his hands by his sides any longer. He reached up blindly, grabbing at Aziraphale's wrist and shaking his head hard. There was something too much about getting hit like this, stunning and hurtful and raw.

“Stop,” he said. _“Please...”_

Sometimes it was as good as raising a red flag in front of a bull to tell Aziraphale to stop, but now he did. He laid his hand on the reddened flesh that he had struck, and Medoc placed both of his hands over Aziraphale's.

“I can feel your heart beat,” Aziraphale said softly.

“I _do_ have one,” Medoc said, and the angel laughed.

“Do you know, I never doubted it.”

Aziraphale was silent long enough for Medoc to get that sneaking sense of guilt, to start wondering if he really needed to cry off at all. Of course he could take more than he had.

“You... you don't have to stop,” he said, but Aziraphale shook his head.

“It's too many new things, isn't it?” Aziraphale asked sympathetically. “It's _hard_ for you, the choking, the hitting...”

Medoc cringed from the shade of disappointment in Aziraphale's tone. It was so different in Hell. No one bothered being disappointed in Hell, they just... Only angels were disappointed, and it _hurt._

“No,” he insisted. “It's all right. I like it, I _want_ it.”

He didn't hate it enough.

He stifled a soft longing sound as Aziraphale slid away from him and off the bed.

“Let's have something more familiar, shall we?”

Medoc looked up with a mixture of relief and dread as he saw the cane appear in Aziraphale's hands. It was a length of rattan dyed deep red, and there was a heavy menace in its thickness and its weight. Aziraphale showed him how little it could bend and gave him a solid tap on the shoulder.

“Yes?” Aziraphale asked, tilting his head inquiringly.

Medoc swallowed, flushed with desperation for being asked, for being considered.

“Ask me,” he whispered. “Say... say please.”

For a moment, Aziraphale was motionless, as still as a funerary angel on a tomb, as ungiving as stone. Then he smiled, and to Medoc's surprise, he sank down to his knees by the bed, cane laid by his side, and a smile so _fond_ on his face that Medoc ached He propped his chin on his crossed arms, and Medoc had to stop himself from reaching out for the angel because even in this moment, some things he knew would not be tolerated.

“Please,” Aziraphale said sweetly. “Please allow me to take your shirt off and stand you by the hearth. Please let me bring this cane down over your shoulders and your back until I split skin. Let me hurt you until there are tears running down your face and you would do anything for me to stop. Let me strike you after you have told me to stop.”

He paused, and Medoc held his breath as Aziraphale reached for him, running a gentle finger from his hairline down his nose. The light touch sent a shiver of pleasure through his body, confusing and electric.

“Please,” Aziraphale said again, and Medoc nodded. Couldn't help himself. Never could.

He let Aziraphale help him to his feet, and he stood quietly as Aziraphale removed his shirt and his jacket, hanging them neatly on the hook on the back of the door.

“Now,” Aziraphale said.

Medoc went to the cold hearth, setting his hands on the mantel. Aziraphale came up behind him, fussily adjusting his position, where his hands rested, how steady he was on his feet. The light touches burned, almost like pain until the cane came whickering through the air and reminded him what real pain was.

He shouted with the first stroke, eyes wide and barely able to believe how much it hurt. The weight of the cane, heavier than Aziraphale had used before, forced the air from him, and a hot ache rose up immediately from the welt. There was something _dense_ about the sting of it, something less like discipline and more like abuse The act was stripped down to what it was without love or care: something meant to wound.

He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt how much control the angel had, but right now, he couldn't feel it as two blows came down, one almost on top of the other. They burned, they hurt, they were almost like bludgeons driving him forward until he caught himself, stiff-armed, on the mantel.

“Please,” he whispered, but the angel ignored him, striking him again, this time closer to mid-back, across untouched skin.

The pain was terrible, a wrenching burning evil across his back and his shoulders, but the real hurt came from the strength of the blows, the heart-stopping force of them. Each one forced his breath out of his body until even his cries were drowned in tears, and finally he fell silent, eyes shut as tight, and and taking long deep breaths between the strokes.

It was the sound that finally broke him. Medoc knew the tearing-silk sound of a regular cane, but this one was so much heavier. It barely whistled at all before landing with a hard dead thump on his body. He couldn't brace for it. He timed his flinches wrong and paid for it with a violent shock through his body and a sick feeling in his stomach.

_I can't, I can't, I can't,_ he thought, and finally it was true.

Medoc dropped to his knees on the hard tile of the hearth, covering his ears with his hands, his eyes screwed tight, and his face soaked with saltwater.

“Stop,” he whispered. “Stop, please, just... just stop.”

Aziraphale made a soft pleased noise, and helped Medoc to his feet.

Then he placed his hands back on the mantle.

“One more,” he said.

One more stunning blow, and Medoc dropped again, curling on the floor as his body tried desperately to protect itself because his heart certainly wouldn't. He kept his eyes shut tight, trying not to listen to the angel's footsteps as he left the room.


	2. Chapter 2

There were no words in Medoc's head. There was only a blank buzzing in his skull, a shattered quiet and the relentless ache of his back. He could feel the other hurts too, the bruised soreness of his throat and the slight drawn tight feeling of his chest where Aziraphale had punched him. He let the emptiness have him, and he closed his eyes. Drifted. Stopped crying.

“Come here, love.”

The words made Medoc curl in on himself tighter, shaking his head mutely. He couldn't. Not after that, he just _couldn't_ , but then there were gentle hands in his hair, someone carefully untangling his limbs and helping him to his feet.

Medoc leaned his weight against Crowley, trusting the other demon to bear it, and he hissed with pain as Crowley tumbled him face-first into the bed.

“Fuck, but I'm sorry,” Crowley whispered, and Medoc buried his face in the soft pillows as Crowley gingerly traced a finger between his welts. Now that he was calmer, he could smell blood. True to his word, the angel had split his skin, probably on the last stroke. Love left a sickening feeling at the bottom of his stomach.

Medoc almost kicked Crowley straight off the bed at the first touch of a hot damp cloth to his back, but then he moaned softly as Crowley persisted, bathing the welts with a careful touch. Slowly, by inches, Medoc relaxed into the mattress, the heat doing its work as his muscles finally loosened.

“There's a good lad,” Crowley muttered. “There you are...”

“You don't have to,” Medoc said into the pillow. “I don't need this.”

“I do.”

Medoc winced when he felt something icy cold touch the worst of the sore spots of his back. Some kind of antiseptic salve, he guessed. Demons couldn't heal like angels could, not that he would have wanted to get rid of the marks he had earned in such a hurry. He drew a sharp breath as Crowley pressed a little too hard against an especially tender spot, and Crowley pulled back immediately.

“Did I hurt you?”

“What do you care?” Medoc spat, and then his bravado crumpled as Crowley ranked gentle fingers through his hair, firm against his scalp. He shuddered, almost sobbed, hated himself.

“Oh my poor love,” Crowley said, and he set the salve aside to lie down next to Medoc.

His hand was warm against Medoc's unmarked lower back, and he rubbed small circles there, murmuring softly as Medoc tried to control himself. What was wrong with him? What the Heaven was _wrong_ with him, that love could leave him so broken?

“I can't,” he tried to explain to Crowley. “I _can't...”_

“Shush, darling, you don't have to, all right, I promise...”

Crowley made a protesting sound as Medoc rolled over on his side, but he drew Medoc into his arms. Crowley started to kiss him, but Medoc laid his thumb on Crowley's lips, swiping hard as if to wipe away lipstick.

“He kissed you,” Medoc said jealously, and Crowley nodded.

“ _Tell_ me.”

Crowley sighed, cupping the back of Medoc's neck and bringing them to rest brow to brow.

“He came out bright as a star. Thanked me for what a wonderful present I had given him. Told me he loved me, loved me best of all his things. He kissed me.”

Medoc shivered, and Crowley pulled him closer, careful of his back.

“I'm sorry,” Crowley whispered in his ear. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry...”

Medoc turned his head, and Crowley obediently kissed him, allowed Medoc's tongue into his mouth as he sought after any lingering trace of the angel, any spark that he could steal or borrow or find. There was none, only the spent-fireworks taste of another demon, and he drank that down instead, tangling his his fingers in Crowley's shirt to keep him anchored close.

“Careful, careful,” Crowley said desperately, but Medoc shook his head.

“I don't want to be careful,” he said. “I want you to put me on my back. I want you to be _sorry.”_

For a moment, Medoc was certain that Crowley wouldn't, and something deep inside him beat fragile wings against a steel cage. He felt a slither of cool dry scales through his mind, something like a cautious hand weighing his heart, and Crowley sighed.

“All right, love,” he said, and with one quick motion, he flipped Medoc flat on his back.

The pain, slightly dulled from time and care, woke up with flaming roar, and Medoc yelped. His cry was cut off when Crowley threw his weight on top of Medoc's body, pinning him to the mattress as he claimed his mouth in a vicious kiss. There was just a hint of poison in his spit, slightly bitter, wholly captivating, and for the second time that night, Medoc gave himself up to something he knew would kill him.

“Why are you doing this?” Crowley said between kisses. “Why are you doing this, don't you know you're worth more than this?”

Medoc started to shake his head, a familiar sensation of falling filling his chest, but Crowley cupped his face in both hands, staring desperately into his eyes.

“You are,” he insisted. “I swear to you, you are.”

The pain from his back quieted to a dull growl, and it grounded him, making him still. A new kind of tension thrummed through his body. Crowley, famous tempter that he was, could sense it, and this time when he leaned down to kiss Medoc, his mouth was soft and tender.

“ _Should not treat thee thus, should not hurt thee so, not when thou art so precious...”_ He hissed the words into Medoc's ear as if it was a secret, and Medoc shuddered underneath him.

“No,” he said clearly. “Too much.”

Crowley only kissed him, giving no sign he had heard Medoc's protest, but when he spoke again, it was in plain English, where you could lie about anything.

“I'm so sorry, love,” he whispered, his hand sliding down Medoc's bare chest. “I'm so sorry, please, please, let me...”

His hand came down to rest on the fastening of Medoc's jeans, and it stopped there as he looked at Medoc searchingly. Medoc swallowed, daring to shake his head just a little. You... you didn't. You didn't say no to a demon as well-regarded as Crowley, didn't deny something like him anything as long as you knew what was good for you.

Crowley pulled back immediately, leaning down to kiss him again, long and longing kisses that made Medoc shudder. He wrapped his arms around Crowley's body, his hands tugging Crowley's shirt loose to run up his slatted flanks and down his unmarked back. Crowley's skin was warm under his hands, and Medoc made a soft wanting sound, needing more of it.

Crowley understood his silent plea, and stood up from the bed to strip, his movements economical and matter-of-fact. Medoc watched him, examining every bit bared. Crowley was a marvel, the next best thing to human despite his yellow eyes. Crowley would be a masterclass for any demon that cared to work on Earth, but Medoc found himself searching for something else instead, whatever spark it was that made the angel treasure him so, that made him so damned special that the angel would never mark his flesh, never bite him hard enough to bruise.

Crowley looked up briefly, a slither of cold scales in Medoc's head.

“No,” he said. “Stop.”

Medoc wanted to say that he couldn't, but then Crowley was back in bed with him, drawing him to his side again, off his back. The cuts had broken open again, momentarily sticking him to the sheets, and Crowley shook his head.

“He shouldn't have done that to you.”

Medoc knew that he should protest - _he's an_ angel!- but Crowley started kissing him again, nothing but kisses, patient and sweet and so foreign that Medoc's own arousal caught him by surprise. His hands seemed to seek Crowley's shoulders of their own accord, and he was pressing his hips against Crowley's body fitfully, almost unaware that he was aroused until Crowley pulled back to look him over carefully.

Suddenly Medoc was aware of the blush on his face, the way his heart beat and how he wanted to squirm out of his skin. All that, just for a little kissing. It was enough to make him cry with shame if he hadn't cried so much already.

Crowley reached for his face, but when Medoc flinched back, he pulled away.

“I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to do,” Crowley murmured. “I promise, all right? Only what you like. Only what feels good.”

Medoc felt as if the angel had punched him again. In his own way, Crowley was as monstrously strange as the Aziraphale. It wasn't something a demon should say. When Medoc even glanced at the way he felt when Crowley said such things,he realized that he must have been monstrous too, because it wasn't something a demon should want to hear.

He nodded, and Crowley crowded a little closer to him, his kisses lighter this time and trailing down his throat and his chest. There was a whisper of pain when he kissed the part that had met Aziraphale's fist, there and gone, and then he licking gently at Medoc's nipple, slowly and with such deliberation that Medoc reached up to tangle his fingers in Crowley's hair.

“No?”

“Don't...”

Crowley stopped, starting to pull away, but Medoc shook his head.

“Don't _stop,”_ he said, his voice almost petulant, and Crowley laughed.

He scattered soft loving licks all over Medoc's chest until Medoc was squirming, a few moments away from kicking before Crowley stopped. The light in Crowley's eyes was golden, his mouth soft and red.

“Let me,” Crowley pleaded. “Let me, please...”

Medoc held the world _no_ in his mouth, and he let it melt before he nodded.

“Just...”

“What?”

Medoc shut his eyes.

“Just say it,” he said. “If you can. I know it won't be... I know it _isn't,_ but...”

 _But I need it,_ and he cringed in humiliation.

“I love you,” Crowley said quietly, dropping a kiss to the point of Medoc's shoulder. “I love you. I don't want you hurt or crying. I don't want you in pain.”

“What do you want?” Medoc whispered, pushing as close to Crowley as he could. He could feel Crowley's cock, hard now, pressed against his clothed hip, and there was no room for fear at all, just a wild need that could choke him.

“I want you, want you happy and safe, because I love you, I'm not going to hurt you. I won't, I would never...”

Crowley stroked Medoc's hip, tugging lightly at his trousers. Medoc took a deep breath, burying his face in Crowley's chest, letting Crowley slide his arm under the crook of his neck to pillow him.

“Love you,” he murmured, sending another shiver through Medoc's body. “Love you so, would never hurt you. _Never_ that. Please. Let me make you feel good.”

Medoc risked a gentle hidden kiss to Crowley's chest, muttering something that sounded like _more._

“I love you, please, _please_ let me make you forget that he- Let me... let me care for you. That's all I want, that's all I _ever_ want. Need to make you feel so good, because you are _mine_ , because I am so _sorry...”_

In the end, shaking with desire, Medoc couldn't say yes, could only nod and dig his nails desperately into Crowley's chest as Crowley unfastened his trousers and tugged them down just enough to slide his hand inside.

He found nothing between Medoc's legs, and Medoc had to choke back an explanation. Crowley had told him, several times now, that it was better to have such things prepared for Earth. It didn't do to startle the locals, and pre-made was better than on the fly any day. Crowley also knew that it was a mistake to have such vulnerable parts in Hell, and how quickly something made for pleasure could be turned to a more painful and humiliating purpose.

Medoc needed to say nothing at all, and instead he unraveled in a long sigh as Crowley's hand slipped between his thighs. The other demon worked with care as Medoc clung to him, clever fingers pressing and pinching and prodding until he had shaped Medoc's body to something sweetly open and soft, already a little damp and utterly perfect. Medoc sighed as Crowley worked his fingers over the flesh he had parted, testing his work carefully.

“Yes?” he asked softly. “Is this good?”

“Mm, I don't know,” Medoc responded, though he did. “Careful?”

Crowley leaned in to kiss him on the forehead.

“Yeah, always...”

Medoc was barely aware when his hips started to rock, Crowley circling his newly-made clit with a determined gentleness before sliding down to investigate his cunt. No need for pain now, no need for blood or a semblance of tearing, stupid idea anyway. It was nothing but sweetness and softness, kind enough to drive Medoc out of his head.

Medoc clung to Crowley, as hungry for the press of Crowley's body against his as he was for Crowley's fingers sliding inside him. It was just the slightest stretch, barely more than a pinch, but when Medoc shivered, Crowley slowed down, nuzzling his hair. His touch was utterly gentle and without demand, as if he had all the time in the world.

It was all of a piece, Crowley's care, the throbbing of the welts on his back, the way the angel asked to hurt him, and the desperate need in Crowley to make up for it. He didn't get one without the other; he thought it might kill him if he did.

It wasn't sex, not at first. It was only sweet, only pleasure and touching. Then something in Medoc locked on to Crowley's determinedly even breathing, his hard cock pressed against his hip and it became sex in a hurry. He ignored the way his back broke to pain if he tensed wrong, and he heard Crowley hiss with pleasure when he clenched down on his fingers.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Crowley crooned. “That's right, whatever you like, just tell me, and I swear, I'll give it to you.”

It was on the tip of Medoc's tongue to say that Crowley should fuck him, but somehow it got away from him. He wanted to open himself for Crowley's pleasure, to make this all somehow worthwhile for the other demon, but he forgot. The idea slipped his mind as Crowley's fingers worked inside him, and then he couldn't think of anything at all as the tension, built up so slowly and with such care, dragged him down.

When he came, Medoc bit back words that he knew would damn him as surely as loving Lucifer had. Instead he swallowed them and let Crowley drive him to a wracking climax, wave after wave of pleasure striking him with as little care as the angel had and as powerfully.

As the last shudders faded away, Medoc started to flop on his back, but Crowley's hand shot out and rolled him over on his belly instead.

“Oh,” he said, his voice hoarse after his cries. “I forgot.”

“I didn't,” Crowley said wryly.

They were quiet now, as if neither of them could bear much more. Other times, Medoc had fled back to hell as soon as this was over. Even now, he could feel the urge to run back to the misery and the darkness of Hell's long halls and haunts, where things made sense. Instead he turned his head from Crowley, summoned up all his courage, and reached for the tongue they shared.

“ _Would love me without him?”_ Medoc whispered. _“Would still touch me, an he were not here?”_

Crowley hesitated.

“Yes,” he said.


End file.
